


Opacity

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark Bruce Wayne, Dark Cassandra Cain, Dark Dick Grayson, Dark Tim Drake, Dark!Batfam, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd-centric, Mafia AU, dark Batfamily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29463180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: Jason crawls out of his grave, memories of the past still buried. But when Red Hood intercepts a counterfeit currency operation one month into his tenure, the past may come find him anyway.A mafia Batfam AU.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Cassandra Cain, Jason Todd & Dick Grayson, Jason Todd & Everyone, Jason Todd & Tim Drake
Comments: 112
Kudos: 421
Collections: All My Bookmarks





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Godfather](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641192) by [envysparkler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler). 



> It's a Mafia AU! Because I read Envysparkler's 'Godfather' ... **and then proceeded to read every single Mafia AU I could get my hands on, I love this trope so, _so_ much.** But, it's me, so. _Amnesia, for flavor_. And, as an added bonus, I swear my chapters will be shorter this time!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It was pitch black. Wherever Jason was it was pitch black and the smell of must and damp earth overpowered his nose. Beneath his hands, the tips of his fingers rubbed against a material― _silk_ perhaps? The air tasted old and he could hear nothing but the sounds of silence, ringing louder than any bell in his ears.

The panic did not set in until he raised his hands, only to be met with an immovable force.

Jason's next few breaths stuttered, his fingers fumbling, searching desperately for some handle or opening he couldn't see in the darkness.

The fear, coupled with terror, finally set in. Each sharp breath into his lungs came faster, faster, _faster,_ fluttering, a trapped bird inside his ribcage. Quivering breaths made shorter and faster until he was shivering and shaking as the panic roiled through every muscle, hands scrabbling for an aperture or orifice he could get a grip on. _There was none._

Until, suddenly, his nails encountered an edge, furthest to his left.

Jason rolled. As far as he could. He scratched at it, desperate, like his life depended on it.

“Help,” he croaked, his mouth, tongue and voice all protesting. The inside of his mouth was more parched than a desert, but the _sheer terror_ overrode his discomfort. _“Help!”_ He tried again, once more to no avail.

Jason was trapped. Confined in something that surrounded him on all sides. Panicked cries never ceased as he continued to try and wriggle his nails underneath the tiny opening. The air seemed to grow thinner. Tears rolled down his frozen cheeks, colder than a corpse's.

Finally, _finally,_ he managed to slide three fingers through the hole and― _dirt._

Dirt poured in, straight into his mouth, over his nose. It left him coughing and spluttering as he gasped his way upwards. Worms crawled about and Jason could do nothing but cry as he shook and screamed desperately at no one.

 _Okay, calm down Jason―fuck, this was not a time to be calm_ ― _think! Act._

Inch by inch, he managed another finger through the opening, then worked on his other hand, taking shallow breaths that stuttered and halted at random as his terror spiked.

 _It was a lid._ Jason didn't know when it all made sense, when he connected the dots―it was a lid. Of course.

It was easy to bring his feet into it, then.

Every kick shook the earth around him. The dirt outside was soon inside. Jason maneuvered himself, futilely fighting against the earth until it wasn't so futile anymore. Every quarter inch was a mile run. Every two, a triathlon. It was like trying to sprint on the moon. Trying to fight against the ocean itself. There was no air. Jason could not breathe― _he couldn't fucking breathe._ But he couldn't stop. There was no stopping. He needed to go up, get out of the earth. His mouth tasted like dirt. His tongue felt gritty and his eyes too cold as they stayed closed against the damp soil.

Finally, his fingers broached a wetness that felt more like rain and his fingers pieced through the dirt into the air. Above him, Jason could hear the sound of the heavens opening up. Pulling himself those last few inches was like battling the entire earth alone. The dirt under his nails scratched at the surface, desperately trying to find purchase.

With a grunt and a yell that bordered on a scream, he pulled himself those last few centimeters free until his face pierced the sky with a sharp, gasping breath.

Jason drank in air like it was water, reveling in that each breath came easier than the last until he was sitting above ground laughing hysterically. It did not take more than a moment for the hysteria to devolve into keening sobs. Unrestrained and uncontrolled in their own right.

Jason wailed into the night air as the rain came down heavy and hard onto his exposed face. Dressed in a suit he didn't remember and covered in more dirt than a pig, he sobbed and cried and choked on every slight hitch until his chest ached and his body felt sore from every tremble, the cold wracking his shuddering frame.

It took him longer than it probably should have to realize where he was.

A graveyard.

The headstone, ornate, beautiful, bore his name and an inscription. Jason wiped away the rain and the tears to read―

― _Jason Peter Todd._

_Beloved grandchild. Adored brother. Loved son._

Dead?

His mind wanted to cry out at the idea.

Dead people didn't come back to life. Or, at least not for as long as it took to put them in the ground and plant a headstone over top.

It couldn't be him. Or maybe it could, but it was just someone's sick idea of a joke.

But Jason didn't know anyone who would play a joke on him? Quite frankly, Jason couldn't remember if he knew anyone or anything at all!

 _Behind his eyelids, flashes of fire and cackling laughter pricked at the edges of his consciousness,_ but Jason couldn't touch those memories right now. Something, something buried deep told him he shouldn't. That he _didn't want to know_ what those memories held. That if he opened Pandora's box there would be no going back― _and he wasn't ready to touch that. Not yet, maybe not ever._

So, he didn't.

Instead, after wrestling his mind under some sort of control, he worked on his feet next. Getting them to move. To stand. Shaky legs holding him up like a newborn deer. Jason slipped in the mud and landed on his ass. He tried again. He got it this time.

The cold wind was bracing. It made his skin _ache,_ it bit and scratched at his flesh, a familiar chill that made up the thin alleys of Gotham's crime riddled areas and rich wide streets alike. It stung and smarted, like a harsh slap to the face.

He couldn't stay here.

One step at a time. One foot, then the other.

 _Help._ The voice inside him cried. His mouth never moved. He uttered not a single sound. Nobody came to help.

One foot. Then, the other.

The mud clung to his trouser pants. Jason tried to spit out as much of the dirt in his mouth as he was able, but it was like spitting sand―he never did get it all.

Nobody gave him so much as a sideways glance as he ambled through the streets, clinging to building corners every now and again when there was no one around―there would be no showing weakness. Not now, not ever. He wondered why that ugly, terrified part of him urged that so strongly, but he let it take the lead. It was about survival. Jason knew that much.

* * *

_The hour was early enough that Bruce wasn't entirely sure coffee would be enough to get him through the day._

_Taking a sip, he closed his eyes and then, slowly, he inclined his head. “Thank you, Alfred.”_

_The elderly butler smile in return. “Very good, Master Bruce.”_

_Bruce cracked open his eyes once more after Alfred was gone, surveying the table, his eyes lazily hovering over his gathered children―Dick, Cassandra and Timothy._

_Dick was grumpy today, he noted, watching the oldest of his children―a man now in his own right, but forever a boy in Bruce's eyes―scowl down at his breakfast. Bruce raised an eyebrow at it, but made no comment, he was sure the irritation and annoyance would be gone by lunchtime._

_He moved on. Cassandra sat tall in her chair as she ate, each mouthful slow and deliberate, as though it was her first time tasting any food at all―in some ways it was so very similar to―_ no. _Quickly, Bruce shut that thought down and swallowed down the bile that always came with the grief. It had been eighteen months, fourteen days since… no. Not today. Bruce just couldn't today._

_The youngest, Tim, sat meekly in his chair and picked at his food in spurts. One day he would grow up to be a fine young man―_

― _the phone in his left pocket suddenly vibrated._

_Bruce set down his fork, catching the attention of his three children._

“ _Wayne.” He pressed the phone against his ear and answered as cordially as the hour would allow. Few had this number. Fewer still had the balls to contact him at this hour._

“ _Hey B.”_

“ _Barbara,” he answered with a small smile, softening now. She wasn't his, but that hardly mattered―she was his by default. Bruce would never dare to infringe upon Jim's rights as her parent, but all of Gotham knew the Gordon's weren't to be touched lest the Wayne Family learn about it. Then god help whoever thought that was a good idea._

“ _What can I do for you?”_

 _Barbara held herself well under questioning, even under_ Bruce's _questioning. It was rare to hear the fiery young woman to ever sound awkward or uncomfortable, but she did―and that fact alone had him on edge._

“ _This…” she began, then stopped and restarted. “This might sound odd and… maybe I'm being, I don't know, overly dramatic, but…”_

_Bruce waited. “But?” he prompted eventually._

_Down the line, Barbara's breathing became audible. Harsh as she sucked in a violent breath._

“ _It's Jason,” she blurted. “Wayne cemetery was broken into in the early hours. The caretaker phoned in to the police station this morning, claims a grave was robbed. Just one. I… I think you know whose.”_

_Every molecule in Bruce's body lit up as though it were on fire, but only shards of ice could be heard in his tone as he acknowledged her._

“ _I see,” he returned, a glacier inside an ice age. “Thank you Barbara, I'll take care of it.”_

_Looking up, he found himself meeting the eyes of his children and suddenly found himself filled with a near violent protectiveness. Nothing would ever happen to one of his own ever again, he swore it._

_The Wayne's weren't known for their mercy._


	2. the ends justify the means

Red Hood's target was a balding man in his late forties who had a protruding beauty spot under his left eye and spoke with a nasally accent that would grind on anyone's nerves. He seemed to be the type of man who would laugh when a child dropped their ice-cream and right off the bat Jason hated his oily demeanor.

In saying that, Jason hated a lot of people. It wasn't exactly _hard_ to piss him off.

It had taken him this long, but _finally_ he was climbing up the drain, picking off the dregs in the barrel one by one. No more was he laboring through the waist high numbers of unctuous pimps eager to earn a pretty penny through selling information, nor was he cutting through the thickets of underpaid goons hired for their muscle, not to make mention with their mouths. The sleazy and greedy never lasted long under the employ of the truly adept criminals―but it also made finding an opening into the genuine crime syndicates that much more difficult.

One month. That's how far back his memories went. One month since he'd begun renting his shitty, mildew ridden, poorly insulated apartment. _Renting_ was perhaps too strong of a term to use. More accurate would be that he'd commandeered the place from some old man he'd caught beating the crap out of his greying spaniel. _The dog_ _―_ _Betty_ _―_ _had gone to his neighbors, the kid had been thrilled,_ _her father… less so._

Now, though, Jason was swinging from the next rung―the shady dock-masters of the harbor who overlooked the smuggling of drugs and weapons indiscriminately, the unsavory individuals in charge of doling out the green to the drug runners.

If he wanted to clean up the city, to eradicate human trafficking and violent rogues, he would need to make his way to the top of the food chain, but to do that he needed to tread lightly and leave no trace behind. Information was king in this life; that much he already knew. Jason wanted no chance that the Red Hood would be anything more substantial than a fable spread amongst the underground, striking fear into the hearts of wicked men.

Even he would admit it to himself though, the next rung?―It wasn't exactly a _huge_ step up, nowhere near mob boss league―but still, he could at least make merry in that he'd done it all in just over four weeks and with no memory of his past, to boot. Crime paid, usually in more ways than one. Pickpocketing gangsters? That was just stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. The poor just happened to be named: Jason Peter Todd.

The target―Bald Eagle, Jason had humorously named him―moved from one room inside the warehouse to the other, divided by a key-coded door and a gyprock wall. With a silent snort, Jason briefly wondered what exactly the door was supposed to do when the rafters were entirely exposed, but it wasn't his racketeering ring, so who was he to judge?

Fast on the balls of his feet, he skipped along the exposed metal beams, sticking to the shadows as he followed Baldy to the next room.

Wall to wall, the room was filled with boxes, each with their own individual, multi-passcoded lock. It was a sophisticated set-up, and expensive too―much more than the Calabrese family could afford, not that Jason had thought this warehouse on the bay belonged to them anyway. This stank of old money, he didn't know how or why. It was little more than a hunch.

Bald Eagle moved between the locked crates randomly―a quality inspector, Jason presumed as he pulled out samples at random―counterfeit cash that looked indistinguishable from genuine money. Quite frankly, the man did not look remotely intelligent enough to understand the good quality shit from the bad, but then again, Jason had been wrong before―sometimes it was the lanky, skinny thugs who _actually_ knew how to throw a punch.

Bald Eagle inspected and then returned each bound sample before moving on, giving Jason enough space in the vacant, unguarded room to swing down soundlessly, moving like a shadow as he landed on his toes and slipped back into the dark spaces between the endless rows of faux money.

They weren't printing the cash here. That much was clear. This was just a holding place, the warehouse entirely off the dodgy dock-master’s books.

Quickly, he slipped past the tall boxes all stacked neatly atop one another, and moved on, following Baldy as he made his way deeper into the seemingly endless warehouse.

There were more up and coming crime rings in Gotham than Jason cared to name, but only four family's ruled the underbelly of the city: Falcone, Maroni, Calabrese and Wayne. Three out of four he'd already had the displeasure of becoming acquainted with over the last month―it was becoming easier to spot a Maroni from a Falcone operation―but despite the Working Girl's claims the _Wayne's_ were the most powerful criminal element in Gotham, Jason had yet to come across even a single shipping container he could trace back to the family.

This, however, did not look like a Maroni _or_ a Calabrese operation. Perhaps his luck was changing.

Jason ran his fingers over the lip of the crate nearest to him. In shape and design, the boxes bled _Falcone,_ but for one exception: Jason _knew_ the Falcone family refused to deal in counterfeits―they cared far more about owning the genuine ticket; Ming Vases and the Koh-i-Noor. This just wasn't their M.O. Which meant someone was playing impersonator. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to eliminate the remaining suspects, but he needed confirmation. If this really _was_ a Wayne operation, he needed intel. Given the way so many of his contacts recoiled at the mere mention of the name, he needed information―needed to know exactly what he was walking into.

Jason's strong hunch of whose operation he was stalking roiled about in his gut.

Abruptly, out of the darkness, Bald Eagle's voice echoed throughout the room. It startled Jason, though he was careful to keep that close to the vest.

“You don't want to be here, kid,” Bald Eagle stated clearly, stepping around a crate of counterfeit cash and into Jason's vision. The man had pistol in hand. Not much of a thing, but it would still put a hole in anyone who wasn't careful, e.g. him.

“Trust me.”

Jason nearly smiled. This guy _was_ more intelligent than he had given credit.

“Oh?” he answered lightly, chuckling and delighting in the visible flinch the voice modulator inside his helmet inspired from the man. “I _very_ much think I do.”

Regaining himself, Baldy reaffirmed his beady-eyed stare. “You don't know what you're dealing with here,” he said. “Believe me, this ain't something you wanna get involved with.”

Jason waved him off easily. “Heard that one before, try something new.”

The other man's eyes narrowed sharply. The light of the half-moon glinted off the top of his shiny, bald head. “I've heard of you,” he asserted stonily. “The Red Hood, right? Defender of the scarlet whore and orphan alike, yes?”

This time, Jason laughed. “Well,” he returned jovially, “if that's how the scum-bags are describing me these days, I'll take it.”

Bald Eagle cracked a mirthless smile of his own. He had a tooth missing. The expression made Jason immediately uncomfortable, suddenly reminding him of the pistol pointed at his chest. _Play the game Jay, but_ _don't_ _get too comfortable._

“A word of advice, then,” Baldy continued. “Stick to playin' that role. Keep your nose outta this kind of business. The Maroni's have a hit out on you, but 'cha lucky I don't work for them.”

Jason was quick to jump. “Who do you work for, then?” he asked, all traces of superficial amusement wiped, eyes narrowing behind the helmet and the mask.

Bald Eagle waved the gun at him as one would waggle their finger in chastising a child. “Now you and I both know I ain't gonna share that little tid-bit, but I'll make you a deal. You just turn that pretty little ass of yours around, walk away, pretend you never saw this and we'll call it square. Fair?”

Not even for a single second did Jason believe the man wouldn't put a bullet in his back the moment was turned, but he pretended to consider it for a minute. Humming and hawing just for show. The resistance was pointless, but Jason was growing increasingly bored and annoyed with the man. As for not talking? Well, they'd see about that, wouldn't they?

“I got a better idea,” he replied after a moment, letting a little alley accent drift in. “How's about you tell me who you work for and I don't put a bullet in your head? Where are they making this cash? Where is it going?”

Bald Eagle laughed, this time with genuine amusement. “Look who's holdin' the gun here, kid.”

Quicker than lightning, Jason's own weapon was in his hand.

Were it not for the moon, Bald Eagle would never have even seen him coming―so fast were his movements. This strength and speed? Jason didn't know if he'd had it before he'd crawled out of the ground like some B-list zombie parody or if it was only something he'd acquired after, but either way, it never failed to surprise the swindler and thug alike.

The grin that came upon his face felt feral. _The end justified the means_ _._

Without warning, Baldy was suddenly on the back foot, stumbling to retreat.

The man didn't even have time to fire off a single shot before Jason had his wrist in a vice grip and his pistol buried in his gut.

“Don't worry,” he whispered warningly, close to the man's ear. “I just need information. You can live. I just need to know who you work for and where this green is headed.” Worst of all, he didn't like to think of what this unmarked, fake cash was going towards―absolutely nothing good, he was sure.

Baldy, charming man as he was, simply spat on Jason's helmet.

Disgusting. Bold of him, but disgusting nonetheless. Jason did not like brave criminals. They were annoying and Baldy was about as irritating as they came.

A knee-cap was swiftly disposed of.

The heel of Jason's shoe drove into bone, snapping it like a twig beneath his boot. Simultaneously twisting the wrist with the gun, he rotated that until it snapped too, the pistol falling to the floor with a clatter. Next―before the man could scream in pain, Jason kneed straight upwards, knocking the air out of Baldy. He couldn't breathe. The planned scream turned into a pained, terrified gasp.

“Let's try that again,” Jason said, releasing the man. Bald Eagle dropped like a sack of bricks.

Jason pitted him, he really did.

“A name, a location. Now.”

“ _I don't know_ _―_ _”_ Baldy wheezed between gasps as Jason pressed a foot down on his chest to hold him in place. _“I don't know where it's going, they never said_ _―_ _”_

“ _W_ _ho_ never said?” Jason demanded, slamming his foot down again and eliciting a pained cry from the man underfoot. Maybe that was too much, he'd probably broken a couple ribs with that one. “Give me a name.”

“ _Wayne!”_ Baldy sobbed.

Removing the foot pinning Bald Eagle in place, Jason smiled vacuously, entirely pleasant. “There we go, not so hard.” Suspicions confirmed then.

In return, the crook sobbed louder. Jason was all but turned to leave again when Baldy cried out.

“Please,” he begged. “Kill me, I―if she ever finds out I.” The man's words turned into breathless wailing.

_She._ A single eyebrow rose into his hairline. A woman was pulling the strings on this particular operation.

Jason looked back and watched a moment as the man curled onto his side. This was the very first goon to plead for death. Most pleaded for life.

_The implication was not lost on Jason. It sent a shudder up his spine._

Jason crouched. Elbows on knees as he loomed over Baldy's crying face.

“Who is _she?”_ he asked.

The man said nothing, but simply proceeded to wail louder.

Jason prodded the man in one of his cracked ribs.

“ _They call her the Oracle―”_ he gasped between pained, terrified wails. “I don't know anything else, _please―”_

“Where can I find this 'Oracle'?”

“I don't know, I don't _know,”_ Baldy looped on repeat, shaking his head, crying. “Please, I don't know anything else.”

Jason hummed.

“Guess I'd better start looking for this Oracle then,” he ventured out loud.

Unexpectedly, it elicited a bark of laughter from Baldy. “Oh you won't need to look for her,” he whispered, hysterically. “She already knows you're here.”

The man cried as he bit down and Jason swore loudly, gloved fingers diving for the man's mouth.

“Shit, shit, _shit!”_ he exclaimed rummaging for the cyanide capsule, but he was simply too slow.

The man convulsed several times, foaming at the mouth. Then, within a minute, he was dead.

_Fuck._

Alright, so maybe his method's were harsher than required, but at least it wasn't _him_ that inspired the death via cyanide.

A kernel of fear curled up in his stomach.

Grocery shopping sucked, Jason thought sourly as he lugged several bags up the third flight of stairs to get to his apartment the next morning, feeling slow and sluggish after a disappointing and frankly horrifying night. It was rare that Jason actually _killed_ anyone while he was out moonlighting for justice, but it was weirder still to have someone do it to themselves. If he had known… well, if he'd known, maybe he would have let the man off. As it was, Jason's stomach felt like a pool of unpalatable guilt. Maybe he hadn't pulled the trigger, but he'd sure as hell killed a man last night―he wouldn't make that mistake again so soon. _Tread light, so_ _ft_ _footsteps, don't unbalance the status quo until you_ mean _it._

After setting the shopping bags down and doing the awkward fumble in his pocket for house keys, he eventually opened the door and let himself in.

Taking hold of his shopping, he carried it inside and set it down atop the counter with a huff of effort. One by one he began putting groceries away. Meat in the freezer, vegetables in the crisper, fruit to his makeshift fruit bowl—which was really nothing more than some chicken wire he’d bent into a semi-spherical shape, but hey, he could appreciate hand-made art just as well as the next amnesiac.

Eventually, everything was put away except for the can of condensed milk, left out deliberately. Taking the tin in hand and retrieving his keys from where he’d dropped them on the counter, Jason left his apartment for a second time, shutting the door nice and tight behind him before ascending up the next flight of stairs.

“Leniah,” he called, reaching the landing, knocking lightly with his free hand on her door and staring down at the blue and white label of the sweet food in the other. “I’ve got your condensed milk.”

It took a minute, long enough that Jason began to wonder if she’d heard him at all, but then the door opened an inch, stopped only by the deadlock chain.

A sharp-eyed, dark-skinned, astute woman in glasses greeted him.

A small hand darted out from between the jam and the door and snatched up the tin held loosely in his left hand, drawing it close to inspect the label.

“It’s the right brand, I checked,” Jason said seriously, a response to her suspicious and silent inquisition.

Leniah inspected him over the rim of her glasses. “Can’t be too careful though,” she returned.

“You don’t trust me?” Jason replied with an easy, amused grin. “I’m wounded.”

Leniah snorted. “Not any more than I trust that alley kid accent you’re trying to hide.”

“I told you,” he shrugged, “it’s just the way I talk. Besides, I know even less than you do about where I come from.”

At that her face gained a pinched look, sympathy Jason might have assumed on anyone else, but Leniah was like him—she didn’t trust easily.

The woman behind the deadlock sagged against the doorframe, her voice softening a degree. “Nothing new in the memory department?”

Haltingly, Jason shook his head. “No,” he grit out, shutting down the conversation before it could even start. “Nothing new.”

She was good about picking up on that, along with his weird quirks. Loosely she raised her empty hand. “Alright,” she replied. “Forget I asked.”

However, just as she was about to close the door on him, he braced his arm against it.

“Wait,” he said forcing the harshness out of his voice; now was not the time to get on her bad side. Besides, she was one of the only friends he had, if he could call what the two of them had 'friendship'. “I got a job for you, if you’re willin’?”

Leniah paused. “What kind of job?” she asked, eyes narrowing—she was a Gothmite through and through.

“Nothing major,” he assured her. “A PI job, actually. Plus I’ll pay well, half up front.”

Jason opened his brown suede jacket to reveal the wad of cash he’d picked up from a pimp he’d handed his ass to a week ago—he’d been saving it for a rainy day. Fortunately for Leniah, the skies were beginning to open up.

She eyed the money warily, but Jason could see the want and desperation in her face. Leniah would never take charity from him, just as he would never take it from her, but this was different. This was earning it. Deliberately, she didn't ask where he'd got it. Smart choice.

“Who do you want me to look into?”

Nice.

“She goes by Oracle,” he answered. “That’s all I know about her.”

“Wait—” Leniah’s eyes grew wide. “ _She_?”

A frown wormed its way between his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he grunted, “You know her?”

“Well,” she huffed, “I know of her—although the gender thing is new.”

“What do you mean?”

Leniah rolled her eyes. “Oracle is only the best hacker in the world. No one knows who they are or where they come from. The forums have speculated since time immemorial—but now you’re telling me it’s a _she?”_

Jason wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and rubbed sheepishly. “It could be nothing, but…”

Leniah sighed. “But you want me to look into it anyway?”

He smiled tightly.

Leniah seemed to mull over the expression pensively. “I’ll give it a look,” she decided finally. “But I want three quarters upfront and the second there’s any funny business I’m out. I’m not getting my ass busted for this.”

Jason shrugged. “Fair enough,” he returned, reaching for the money in his pocket. “Here, this should cover Ash’s next insulin injector pen. They're stocked up for two months now, right?”

Leniah took the money gingerly. “Y-yeah, should be.”

“Great,” returned Jason, trying to lighten the mood with another easy smile. “Then I look forward to finding out what you learn about this Oracle.”

Already turning, he was about to head back down the flight of stairs when Leniah’s voice called out to him.

“Hey, Jase,” she said. “Thanks.”

He waved over his shoulder, descending downwards. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Baldy's face swam to the forefront of his mind.

_Actually, she probably shouldn't thank him at all.  
  
  
_

* * *

_~29 Days Earlier~_

_At the defiled hole in the ground, Bruce stood motionless and unflinching―calm on the surface, but a storm below. The sight of it inspired nothing but pure white rage, so all-encompassing that he could not even tremble with it._

_Never before had he felt such blinding fury to be rendered so hopelessly frozen._

_Part of him demanded that he reign it in―except he just…_ couldn't _._

_In the end it was Alfred who came to drag him away from the muddy pit and disturbed soil. The elderly butler stood quiet by his side a moment, an island, a rock, amidst Bruce's terrifying wrath. “It's time,” he announced, laying a hand atop rigid shoulder._

“ _They took his body,” he said without emotion, not shaking the hand off. “They robbed his grave and took his body and_ defiled _him.”_

_Alfred went silent. The crack on the penultimate word bled more anger than god had righteous fury. “Someone is going to pay,” he continued in the lingering silence the butler left. “I swear. Someone is going to pay.”_

_Fingers dug into his collarbone. “I know,” Alfred agreed darkly. “I know, my boy. And believe me, when the time comes, I'll be there with you.”_


	3. a stich in time saves nine

Jason was feeling lighter as he made his way back to his own apartment from Leniah's. If there was any truth to this _Oracle_ _―_ and given Baldy's terror, he felt sure there was―she'd find evidence of it, he had every confidence.

Jason was part way down the starts, when an enthusiastic squeal intercepted his ears. Head shooting up, his gaze landed on the small, bouncing head of a young girl in a vibrant yellow outfit.

“Jasey!”

It was his neighbor, Anika Dellozzo, accompanied by her father, Frank. The young girl, no more than ten or eleven, had her hair high in two twin pigtails and wore comfortable casual clothes. With her father in exercise pants and with their new dog in tow, he deduced they were only just getting back from their morning walk.

Although barely fall, the chill of winter was beginning to encroach, the edges of buildings cold to the touch, the howling winds off the bay now without a trace of warmth. Freezing nights and frigid days were something his body remembered, even if his mind did not. _Get off the streets, get some place warm._

Anika intercepted him as he reached the bottom step of the landing, a shiny, red heart balloon in each hand to match the color of her cheeks, rosy in the brisk air.

“Jasey,” she said again, bubbling and brimming with the kind of excitement only a child could manage. The young girl pulled on the strings of her balloon hearts. The helium balloons wobbled mid-air as she tugged, their strings tied around both wrists respectively so that she would not lose them to an unfortunate accident. “Mister Collins only had two left!”

Behind her, the girl's father finally reached the second landing himself, dog lead in hand as the aging animal lumbered up alongside him.

Jason stopped to smile at her. “Hey, that's great!” he said, injecting enthusiasm. “I love balloons.”

The apples of Anika's rosy cheeks widened out, her smile morphing into a beaming grin.

“And, _and,_ ” she added, even more brightly, “Mr. Collins gave us the leftover ribbon to tie to Betty's collar―doesn't she just look _beautiful?”_

Sure enough, when Jason glanced over to the old dog and its scowling owner, the animal was sporting a shiny tuft of rolled ribbon. “Looks good on her,” he said, turning back to the girl, doing his best to ignore Frank's rather obvious stare of suspicion. The man didn't like him.

The young, sprightly girl nodded animatedly in agreement. “Thank you for giving her to us,” she said. “I wasn't allowed to play with her when she belonged to Mr. Andrews…”

To this, Jason smiled. “I'm sure she loves having you to play with now too.”

It was easily to see that he made the right choice in giving the old dog to a new and better home. In reality, he'd done nothing more than take the dog from its previous abusive owner and then take that guy's apartment too― _so, was it any surprise that_ _Frank viewed him as little more than a bully and a thug?_ No, he supposed not. A whole month in and the other neighbors had begun to warm up to him―Jason was quiet and friendly when they passed on the stairwell, he made a good neighbor and apparently the other guy had been an absolute jerk. However, while Anika greeted him with jovial enthusiasm every time their paths crossed, he could respect and understand Frank's suspicion and hesitance too.

“Here, I want you to have this,” she said, twisting one balloon loose from her wrist. “As a thank you for Betty.”

He tried to refuse. “No, that's yours, Anika. I don't need _thanks_ for Betty, you having her is its own reward,” he attempted, “I don't―”

“You said you liked balloons,” she countered quickly, ignoring his protests easily, even going so far as to pull a pin from her hair and attach it to his jacket when he refused to just take it.

It earned him a snort from her father. Clearly he was a man who had lost many a battle against such tenacity.

“There,” said the girl, throwing her hands on her hips smugly, studying her handiwork. The sole balloon now attached to her wrist and her pigtails bounced in sync.

Jason sighed, but simply re-pinned the balloon a little higher, securing it to his jacket firmly.

The dog let out a huff, which was followed by the smoke-riddled baritone of Frank Dellozzo. “Anika, honey,” Jason heard him said quietly, a voice gritty like sand. “Why don't you take Betty inside and get her a drink, huh? She's probably thirsty after our walk.”

“Okay!” the little girl chirped merrily, hurrying over to take the dog lead from her father without question and steering the mutt inside the house as she hummed happily, a bounce every step. Betty trundled inside and Anika made sure to give Jason one last wave before shutting the door behind her.

Frank Dellozzo was a tall, skinny man with pasty, pale skin, but the menacing step forward, disguised as something not quite close to casual as he threw his hands in his pockets still set Jason on edge.

“I know my daughter has taken a liking to you,” he started, scowling down his nose. It said something about the man's height that he was even able to do that, given how tall Jason himself was. “And you seem to have everyone else in this block thinking you're an okay guy,” he continued, steel behind his eyes, a no-nonsense gruffness in his tone.

Frank took another step forward. “But make trouble for a single soul in this complex and you're _out._ I mean it. We street rats can recognize each other a mile away, but I've left that life behind and I don't want it anywhere near me or my kid. You bring any… _business_ to this block and I'll deal with you myself.”

The threat wasn't empty, but nor did Jason feel particularly overwhelmed by it. It lacked a certain bite and felt kind of like being threatened by a cat; the potential for harm was definitely there, the guy had claws, but Jason also knew he could take Frank Dellozzo quite easily. If Frank was a cat, then Jason was a jaguar.

Still, he absolutely understood Frank's anxieties. The man wanted to protect his daughter and give her a good life, and Jason wanted that for Anika too. She was a sweet girl and didn't need to see the kind of violence he was closing tighter in on. The kind of violence where men chose cyanide over capture.

Jason did not want to get any of the good people here involved in any of his moonlighting for justice―their lives were tough enough as it was.

“I'm not here to make trouble,” he shrugged, putting on airs of nonchalance. “You have my word, sir.”

The bright, red helmet in his apartment suddenly felt like evidence in a crime. The knowledge it was there was a red hot poker jabbing at his conscience.

_Careful, he'd just have to be more careful. Leave and come in through the skylight, rather than the front door._

After studying him a moment longer, Frank snorted and took a step back. “So long as we understand each other,” he returned.

Jason nodded and his eyes tracked Frank's tongue wipe over his upper teeth, scowl briefly amused.

With a silent scoff, that, it seemed, was that.

Lopping forwards with a halting gait that suggested old injuries were playing up, the man soon brushed past him and did not look back as he entered his apartment where his daughter and new dog were waiting. Jason shook his head with a snort of his own, shaking out his unwashed hair before deciding he could probably do with a shower before he went out tonight and similarly made for his own apartment.

All in all, his day so far had been pretty good.

Sofas were underrated. No, really. They were.

As was grilled cheese and salami. _A most holy combo_ _._ Jason needed more grilled cheese and salami in his life.

The cheese oozed onto his tongue as he took another bite, flipping the paper as he went, skipping over the stocks entirely. What was the point in having stocks in the paper these days anyway, didn't they change every zero-point-five seconds anyway?

Jason wiggled on the couch, situating himself more comfortably on the ugly olive green lounge with its suspicious stains and worn-out cushions.

Jason's whole apartment was run-down and slightly unkempt. The door was a busted old brown thing, with at least one of the locks damaged and the door-chain broken altogether and the off-color stains on the wall seemed to be growing in size, which suggested mildew in the timber framing. The kitchen had been in reasonably good condition when he had forcibly moved himself in, although that was probably testament to how infrequently the previous tenant had used it, but the bathroom and adjoining toilet had been so foul he'd almost immediately moved himself right out again―although after leaving bleach and cleaning detergent on every surface for two days straight, the rooms had transformed to become marginally more habitable.

The bedroom had been by far the worst. Jason had done his best to clean up. To toss the thirty-year-old lice-riddled mattress into the street and fumigate the room with every bug repellent and cleaning product he could get his hands on, but in the end it had been a lost cause; he simply shut the door and slept on the slightly less repulsive couch instead.

Jason continued to munch on his grilled cheese and rustle through the black and white broadsheet, the headline: _Crime and Corruption, GCPD commissioner under investigation,_ catching his attention.

Crime and corruption was nothing new in Gotham, especially not when it came to politics or the law―this much Leniah's scornful anecdotes had taught him. His nightly moonlighting as some kind of good-willed rogue had sought only to corroborate this. Every senator had their hand in someone's pocket and every member of the force was a puppet on someone's string, not even truly bothering to hide the bribes they took.

What was surprising, however, was that someone thought to write an article exposing the top man. Either they were very brave or very stupid, perhaps both.

Quickly skimming through the article, buzz words jumped off the page to greet his eyes. Jason believed entirely the accusations levelled at both the man and the police force by extension. Cops in this town were dirty, why would the guy at the top be any different?

The working girls and the street kids alike ran from the police when they showed up in places like Crime Alley. Too many died at the hands of a trigger happy maniac given lawful permission to shoot. Jason had made sure they'd known he was different. Progress was slow, though. Really, he didn't blame any of them for not trusting him yet―hell, if an amnesiac loon with a red bucket on his head popped up out of nowhere and started espousing words like _trust_ and _loyalty_ he'd probably run in the opposite direction too.

Jason sat back with a sigh, momentarily closing his eyes against the gritty, sandpaper sensation that only ever indicated a lack of sleep.

Rest never came easy, not even when he was bone tired. Most nights he tossed and turned on the sofa, blinking back visions of fire or rain, of manic laughter or of unending silence. Of warm hands or of wet soil between his fingers as he fought his way free from the ground, scratching against the wood of the coffin he'd woken up in. Some nights he woke with fire burning through his veins, other nights he was sure he'd become the earth itself.

However, one thing was constant. No matter the dream, no matter if he woke with his heart pounding out of his chest or in his throat, or if he woke dressed in ice, the dreams themselves never stayed with him long. They faded with consciousness.

With a dry self-amused huff, Jason sat forward again, blinking past the sleep still scratching at the corners of his eyes as his eyes landed on the accusatory article again.

He didn't put any stock in the exposè changing anything. “Fat load of good it will do,” he muttered, picking up the second half of his grilled cheese.

The investigation would never go anywhere. At some point, someone would either get bribed or killed and the commissioner would stay right where he was with nary a change made.

Jason scoffed down the rest of his sandwich, finishing it up and licking his fingers clean of butter and grease before wiping them off on his pants.

_The commissioner would stay right where he was with nary a change made―unless of course a certain Red Hood paid him a visit._

* * *

“ _What are you up to, B?”_

_The only indication that Bruce heard the question or noticed the twenty-two year old approaching was a short, flat grunt._

_Dick was toweling himself off having spent the last two hours on the acrobatic equipment and came to rest on the desk beside the computer._

“ _Go take a shower,” Bruce ordered. “You're dripping.” Dick had never followed his orders once in his entire life. He didn't know why he expected any different now._

_The young man smirked, dropping his head forward and wrapping the towel around it to contain the wet hair inside. “Better?”_

“ _Not in the least.”_

“ _Hrn.”_

“ _Don't do that.”_

“ _What?” Dick asked quizzically._

“ _Make that noise,” replied Bruce without heat. “Makes you sound like me.”_

_His eldest let out a snort, patronizingly patting Bruce on the head in a kind of mocking way. “Who else am I going to take after, Alfie?”_

_Bruce grunted. “That would be preferred.”_

_Dick just grinned. And started anew. “So, what are you looking at?”_

“ _Reports. From Oracle.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and momentarily closing his eyes to fight against the fatigue settling there. This was the third time he'd read that same line about an incident in one of the Port Adams warehouses._

“ _Boo,” returned Dick, pouting. “Boring.”_

“ _Well, unless you want to read them for yourself, I suggest you let me work in peace.”_

_Dick rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine,” he acquiesced, but refused to budge. “Anything of interest so far?”_

_Bruce sucked in a deep breath. Patience wasn't his strongest suit. But Dick was Dick, the personification of stubborn._

“ _A man in a red helmet showed up and killed one of ours. Oracle was not pleased.”_

“ _I'm sure,” Dick said thoughtfully, peering at the computer screen with interest. He jerked his chin at the grainy image to the left of the passage Bruce had been reading. “Who's the bucket anyway?”_

“ _Goes by Red Hood.”_

“ _Huh.”_

“… _I know that look.”_

“ _What look?” Dick feigned innocence._

“ _Even if I were to say yes―and to clarify, I'm not―this one's under Barbara's jurisdiction anyway.”_

“ _Boo,” said Dick again, crossing his arms. “Why don't you ever let me have any fun?”_

_Bruce patted his knee. “Next time, chum.”_

_Although hopefully, there wouldn't_ be _a next time._


	4. playing with fire

_My apartment. 9pm_ , read the screen. It was a text from Leniah.

Jason stowed his phone. Stuffing it back into the pocket along the inseam of his jacket, and sighed into the cool night air. His breath made steam against the perpetual haze in Gotham’s skyline.

By now, on most nights, Red Hood would already be out on patrol. Doing the rounds through his favorite haunts, but making sure to surprise with a few unannounced visits in places anew.

Only the promising message had delayed him tonight.

With knuckles already aching from the cold, Jason rapped on her steel-frame door and took half a step in retreat, watching his warm breath swirl and dissipate into the night while he waited for signs of stirring from within.

The text pinged his phone at four. The hours between had not helped his rapidly developing case of ants-in-pants. Emotions oscillated between ecstatic excitement all the way through to gut-twisting fear. Jason hadn’t been able to stop dwelling all day.

Anticipation coiled in his gut as he fidgeted from left foot to right and back again. He briefly considered the benefits of lighting a cigarette, if for no other reason than to have something to do with his hands.

Luckily, he was saved from a final decision on the matter when Leniah’s door opened with a slight click, the door-chain abruptly stopping the door just a couple inches from the frame.

Two dark eyes appeared, then relaxed with an audible huff. Leniah peered through the crack, offering a wan smile at the sight of him. The ghostly light of the moon illuminated her face.

One could never be too cautious in Gotham, he recognized, wincing in sympathy toward the young woman’s paranoia.

Jason shifted some weight back onto his left foot, standing straighter as he folded his arms across his chest.

“You have something for me?” he asked. The words sounded much calmer and more collected than he felt, his skin thrumming with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.

Almost two days since dropping his request with Leniah, he’d sat mostly on his laurels and twiddled his thumbs. At least in regards to the Wayne Mob case and the infamous Oracle.

It was the smart play, the right move, he knew that. But it still didn’t make it any easier to sit on his ass when he wanted to shoot something.

However, the unfortunate reality was that without information on Oracle, Jason didn’t have a clue what he was potentially walking into. The Mafia in Gotham were no game, especially the all elusive Wayne Mob.

And walking in unprepared was unacceptable. Walking in unprepared was how people died. Been there, done that. The experience of clawing through eight tons of wet soil as his lungs burned and his nails bled was not one he was keen to repeat any time soon. He sure as hell didn’t need another terrifying memory to add to his list of ever growing nightmares keeping him awake. The manic laughter and the searing heat of the fire was enough, thanks.

Instead of making his move against the Wayne's, Jason had turned his attention to his newest case: crime and corruption in the GCPD, starting with the head of their organization, the commissioner, Jim Gordon.

It had been a lot of sitting on his couch and picking his way through court documents, looking for discrepancies, for police testimonies that didn’t match up yet somehow found the cases dismissed anyway. Searching for a pattern, a list of judges, a list of lawyers, anything to tie and connect and bind the obviously dirty.

The commissioner himself though? The man shouldn't have had any right to be as evasive as he was. Jason was more than sure each and every one of the four major Gotham mobs had their hands in the GCPD honey jar, but working out which one was paying off the commissioner himself was the hard part. Records of the man generally came up clean, strangely, and there were no obvious, glaring holes in his reports nor in the reports of anyone else concerning the man for that matter. Whoever was scrubbing for the mob pulling the commissioner’s strings also seemed to be performing just as good a job for the commissioner himself.

It made sense. If the top guy never changed, then the pockets of the Mafia stayed lined. There was no need for politics or threats, the police knew what they were getting and those playing puppeteer never had to pay another off. Not that Gotham police were known for their scrupulous interrogations into their own either, mind.

The whole system was rigged and it was the little guy that suffered. Funnily, despite his nightly forays into the ugliest parts of Gotham, Jason had never felt it more keenly than when looking into the case of Jim Gordon, Gotham's esteemed commissioner.

Leniah shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, redrawing his attention.

“You're probably not going to like it,” she began, ominously, like Jason had ever expected he would. “And I didn’t anticipate finding very much―I mean, I’m not the first person to try and find Oracle. I didn't really know where to start.”

Taut as the string on a bow, she leaned closer, uncomfortably resting her rigid frame against the door-jam, brow drawing into a deep frown.

Jason felt his own forehead crease and his folded arms tensed.

“And I was totally right,” Leniah continued through thin lips, with quiet words. “It was like… trying to catch smoke. Like chasing a shadow. Wherever I looked there seemed to be… an absence, almost. By the time I was down my ninth loose end and ready to just give up, I saw it―a pattern.”

Chest too-tight, lungs like lead, Jason drew a deliberately steadying breath before motioning to continue. Leniah's face was little more than a dark shadow.

“I'd gone wrong. I was looking for something when I should have been looking for the absence of.”

Jason blinked. “Leniah,” he sighed quietly. “You've lost me.”

She grinned back at him, all teeth. “No, see you're missing it too! Oracle _scrubs_. That's what she does. And she's good at it. She removes. Takes away the evidence instead of misdirecting it. And you'll never guess where there are zero hits on the infamous hacker Oracle. _Zero_.”

Raising an eyebrow, he felt something sink like a stone in his gut.

“Gotham,” she whispered, like it was some ancient archaeological secret uncovered. “The only place in the world where _Oracle_ doesn't exist.”

That was interesting. In a horrible, potentially deadly kind of way.

“Huh,” he grunted. “So. What does this mean, exactly?”

Leniah tapped gently at her temple. “Think about it. In all likelihood it means she lives in Gotham. In all likelihood it means she's employed here somewhere―somewhere where there are holes in the system. Oh, but she's good, so the holes will be almost unnoticeable.”

Jason blinked. Then, with painful clarity it all seemed to drop into place. An almost audible click as the puzzle pieces slotted together.

“Shit.” Jason spun on his heel and paced a few steps left before rounding on Leniah and stalking back, scrubbing a hand over his face as he went. “Fuck. Okay.”

 _His cases were connected._ Oracle was scrubbing for the Gotham police and Jason was an _idiot._

“Thanks Leniah,” he nodded, passing the last of his cash through the crack in the door. His hands shook and his body suddenly felt jittery, like a ten year old loaded on energy drinks. “What I owe you, in full.”

She shook her head. “Business is business,” she replied.

Neither of them said goodbye. Goodbye's in Gotham were saved. They were never handed out lightly. Leniah simply shut her door and Jason made for the staircase, digging out a cigarette from his pocket with shaky fingers. He needed one. And a roof. For his thoughts to percolate on. The roof of his own apartment complex was as good as any.

Returning to his own apartment in short order, Jason snatched his helmet, guns, holsters and grapple gun, pressed the red domino to his face and climbed out through the skylight, choosing to marinate in his thoughts on the edge of the complex that overlooked the general direction of the GCPD.

So his cases were connected, or at least it looked that way.

The lighter in his hand flared to life as he fingered the flint, once, twice. The cigarette in his mouth gave a satisfying crackle as the flame connected. Once lit he stowed the lighter and basked in the first hit of nicotine.

Oracle was scrubbing for the GCPD, working for the Mob and therefore, it wasn't a stretch to imagine she was cleaning up after the commissioner.

Who she was and where she lived, that was another matter.

Jason took another drag and held it a moment before releasing the smoke with a shaky, halting breath.

His timetable had moved up.

What once had been two separate cases were too quickly merging into one.

It was a sickening revelation.

He’d intended to sit on the commissioner a while, let the corruption in the upper echelons take a quick back-seat. Finding the woman who had driven a man to death with a cyanide capsule seemed _slightly_ more important.

Now, getting to the commissioner―if _only_ for the sake of extracting information about Oracle―was his top and only priority.

The cigarette between his fingers slowly burned down. The hour grew later, the moon rose higher.

Jason stubbed out the butt on the concrete edge of the roof at around midnight, tossing it over once he was sure it was out. Patrol was out. His thoughts were a loop of Commissioner-Oracle-Mob.

Oracle was working for Wayne. That was who had their hand in the commissioners pocket. Not Falcone, not Calabrese, not Maroni. And when he thought about it, it made sense. The working girls, the street kids. They'd all said _Wayne,_ Wayne was the name you needed to fear. And now? Now he knew why.

Reaching for his phone, it was shockingly easy to find the house of the man who was the head of the GCPD. One short Google search, a few broken passcodes later, and the address was right there in the palm of his hand: 78 Regulatory Way, Gotham.

Reaching for his helmet, he secured the latch under his chin. It fit snugly, a familiar pressure around his head. Enough to focus his concentration and pull him away from his own anxieties and fears.

After a quick stretch and a more thorough inspection of the two guns strapped to his thighs, he took a deep breath and steeled himself.

Like a bat taking off silently in the night, he took a running leap at the roof of the next building over, ejected his grapple and made toward uptown Gotham.

* * *

The house was quiet. Expectedly so; the radio clock by the knife-block, visible through the window, read 01:23. Red Hood broke into the kitchen, jimmying the window open with his pocket-knife. He didn't switch on the light, no need to attract more attention.

The place was pretty clean. Not extraordinarily so, it was clear someone lived here… or―Jason spied the dirty dishes in the sink, remnants of an evening meal―two people, if the number of plates were anything to go by.

A vagrant moth cast shadows across the window in the hall, the high moon giving off enough light to see by as it spilled in through the egress and the kitchen.

Jason released a silent huff, his heart beating oddly fast. _It was one thing to break into a warehouse,_ but it was entirely different breaking into a _home._ He felt little more than a common criminal.

Shaking his head, he dispelled as many errant, racing thoughts as he could, making a concerted effort to bring his focus back under control.

Okay. First things first. Find the commissioner.

The man was probably asleep. Bedroom, then. If there were two lots of dishes in the sink maybe he had a wife? He’d have to be careful.

Climbing the stairs, it was easy enough to identify the master bedroom.

Padding along the hallway, the carpet blessedly muffled his footsteps and the door was slightly ajar when he came to a stop.

With his heart beating in his throat, he paused at the threshold long enough to second guess himself.

 _What was he doing?_ All thoughts of justice and ridding Gotham of her corruption at the source seemed pale reasons to be in a man’s house while he slept.

It wasn’t too late to back out now. He could just turn around. Go home. Put thoughts of Oracle behind him.

As Jason closed his eyes, the face of a dead man killed by a cyanide capsule swam to the forefront.

 _It was too late to back out now._ He’d seen. He’d seen enough. He’d seen how dangerous this Oracle was. He knew the commissioner _must_ know her identity. She was scrubbing for him and Wayne alike. Jim Gordon would know Oracle and Jason would be one step closer to his goal. One step closer to making Gotham _safe._ One less dead kid in the ground.

Swallowing hard against doubt, he pushed the door open and it swung open noiselessly.

There was only one lump in the bed.

No wife.

Some of the tension in Jason’s chest fled.

He didn’t bother closing the door behind him. He simply stepped into the room and drew his gun, flicking the light switch as he undid the safety.

The man wasn’t a very heavy sleeper. Attested to by his abrupt awakening.

“...Barbara?” he mumbled, slowly rolling over, reaching for his glasses on the bedside table beside him.

“Guess again,” replied Jason, tone flat, but deadly. The helmet masked any of the real inflection in his voice, but it was still oddly satisfying to watch the man pale as he shoved his glasses on and sat upright.

Jim Gordon’s voice went from relaxed to alert in a microsecond.

“Who are you?” he demanded, shock, fear and astonishment all rolled up into the question. “And why are you in my home?”

“I’ve got questions for you too, Jim,” Jason replied, taking a deliberate and menacing step forward. It was easy to pretend to be older than he was in these moments. “Mostly about the scrubber that seems to be working for both you and the mob. Wanna tell me about that?”

If at all possible, Jim seemed to grow even paler. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped.

“Sure you do,” returned Jason with an easy shrug, airs of forced nonchalance rolling off his shoulders. “Goes by Oracle, I’ve heard.”

Jim’s moustache twitched. “What makes you think I’ve ever heard of this _Oracle_?”

Wow, this man was truly a terrible liar. How was it he managed to get away with so much? Money, probably. And not his own.

Jason snarled. “Don’t fuck with me, Jim. I want to know who she is and which mob she’s working for. It's _Wayne_ , isn't it?” It had to be.

A bullet buried itself in the gyprock beside his head.

With a frantic scuttle, Jason leapt back, dodging away from the hole in the wall. He spun and was greeted by a young, red-headed woman in a wheelchair. In one hand was a pistol, the other rested calmly in her lap.

“Who’s asking?” the girl asked, without a single detectable quaver in her voice.

The gun was trained squarely on him.

Behind the mask, his eyes narrowed. Slowly, he lowered his gun and the commissioner’s relief was palpable.

“Red Hood,” he answered.

The girl rolled her eyes.

“I know your alias,” she returned, shortly. “I want your name. And I want to know why on earth you came here and started digging into people and situations that in no way concern you.”

“Gotham concerns me,” Jason replied, flatly.

“As well it does me,” the woman replied.

With a sniff, Jason returned his gun to its holster. “You’re Oracle, aren’t you?”

The silence was incriminating.

“You killed a man,” he continued, accusation worming its way into his voice of its own accord. “With a cyanide capsule this week. Did you know that?”

Oracle’s voice was calmer than the surface of a still pond. “I’ve killed many men,” she said. “This particular man? He simply took his own life. I don’t count him among my hit list.”

Jason knew he was playing with fire. The girl was deadly as her hair was red.

“By coming here tonight you’ve just put yourself on a very short list,” she continued. “And not one you want to be on, trust me.”

Jason almost _laughed_ at that. Was she threatening him with death?

“Sweetheart,” he started, faux sympathy dripping from his voice like honey. “I’ve been dead once. It didn’t stick.”

Oracle smirked. “Oh no, _sweetheart,”_ she quipped in return. “Death will be a sweet and blessed mercy by the time they’re through with a pig like you.”

Jason shrugged. What did he have to lose, exactly? With the exception of his own life.

The action prompted a snarl from the woman. “Back to my question,” she said. “Who are you. Take off your helmet.”

Raising a single eyebrow, he huffed. “Fine. I suppose now I’ve seen your face, you can see mine.”

The helmet came off with a tiny click. Jason dropped it on the floor and it landed with a dull thunk.

Eyes narrowed further at the sight of the domino. “The mask too,” she demanded.

“A strip tease, huh?” he laughed, peeling it away from the skin around his eyes. Neither Oracle nor the commissioner laughed at his joke. “Tough crowd tonight, geez.”

Jason stowed his mask beside the phone in his pocket and shook out his hair, flat and lifeless after being trapped in his helmet, before looking up to meet her eyes.

The gun, once so steady, suddenly began to tremble in her hand.

Alarmed, green eyes met green, but Oracle’s face showed no sign of the deadly viper that lurked not more than a moment ago.

Instead, she looked petrified and afraid.

“J… Jason?”

The gun fell from her hand and landed on the carpet with a muffled click.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Now was his chance.

Springing from his right foot, he was out the door in a flash, mind racing, heart panicking.

 _JasonJasonJasonJason_ the name on his grave rang like a tolling bell inside his head. How the _fuck_ did she know his name!? He hadn't told her. Shit.

Leaping from the stairs, he landed hard in the kitchen, but didn't bother with the window. Instead, heading straight for the front door.

Sans mask and helmet, The Red Hood disappeared into the night. He was in way over his head.

* * *

_Barbara called him at 2 in the morning, hyperventilating and_ scared.

“ _It's him Bruce_ _―Red Hood―Jason―he―!”_

_He sat up straighter in his bed, phone pressed painfully close to the shell of his ear._

“ _Breathe, Barbara, it's alright,”_ _―he threw back the bed-covers―“I'm on my way.”_

_On the other end of the line, he could make out sobbing. Someone had scared Barbara, a feat unto itself, but that someone would have to pay._

“― _d_ _idn't know me, Bruce, but it was him. It was Jason,” she continued on, hysterically. Maybe she'd woken from a nightmare during a robbery, Bruce thought, trying to put together the pieces as his mind rejected her manic claims. It couldn't be Jason. His son was dead._

_Inside his chest, his heart constricted painfully._

_But Jason's body was missing. And. And._

_If someone had dug up his son's body for the sole purpose of scaring the young woman he thought of as a daughter, they would suffer for the rest of their_ very, very _long life._

_Bruce went down the hall, banging on doors as he went. Dick and Tim poked their heads out into the corridor in short order. Cassandra somehow met him at the foot of the stairs, apparently already awake._

_Alfred emerged from his room with a shot-gun in hand._

_Barbara was still sobbing down the line._

“ _It's okay, Barbara, we're coming,” he continued to console, motioning for his sons to follow. At the mention of Barbara's name, all faces hardened. “Are you tracking this man?”_

_He had the distinct feeling she nodded before answering, “He left his helmet. I found a GPS embedded inside. I've been able to track where he's been, but not where he's going.”_

“ _That's fine,” Bruce replied. “Send his most frequented location to Dick's phone_ _―if we're lucky he'll have a fixed address. In the meantime, I want you to stay where you are. Lock all your doors. I'll be there shortly.”_

_Barbara sniffed, but made a small 'okay' sound._

_The call ended. Dick, Tim and Cass were there from the moment he turned around._

“ _Barbara's house was just broken into. It was the Red Hood.” Their faces hardened further. Dick looked downright furious. “She's sending you an address. Go there. Get this man. Don't kill him.”_

_Tim blinked back at him. “What should we do with him then, B?”_

“ _Take him to the cave. I think it's time the Red Hood and I… talked.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked, consider a comment or a kudos? Thanks for reading!


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